Page 13 of The Duke Meets His Match

Eliza brightened. “Perhaps Lady Webster’s garden party this afternoon will lift your spirits. She is revealing her new horticultural conservatory, and it should be a sight to see. You haven’t forgotten about it, have you? Young Lord Sefton will be in attendance.”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten.” It was another opportunity to flirt with Henry, to try to encourage his pursuit. If all went well, he’d soon officially court her.

Henry fulfilled all her requirements. Many people would disapprove of Chloe’s scheming for his title and wealth, but those people would never understand. They’d never known hunger or cold from lack of coal in the brazier. They’d never experienced a prolonged illness or an incessant cough that made their chest feel tight—as if their lungs were being held in someone else’s merciless grip.

A thought occurred to Chloe and she twisted her napkin in her lap. “Will the duke accompany Henry?”

Eliza’s brow furrowed. “I suppose. I’m told His Grace has taken Henry under his wing. Why?”

Chloe shrugged a shoulder. “Just curious.”

“Well, I’m impressed by the young Lord Sefton. Now that Amelia is married, my sole focus will be on finding you a good match,” Eliza said.

Eliza had always been earnest about matchmaking for her sisters. She’d been the one to look after them when their father had left. It was Eliza who had devised a new identity as a widow and opened the Peacock Print Shop, an establishment that sold paintings, prints, and bric-a-brac items. If it were not for Eliza’s sacrifice they would still be in St. Giles.

Chloe had never minded Eliza’s enthusiasm. But Chloe also knew what both Eliza and Amelia whispered about her every time she mentioned an eligible bachelor. She’s searching for a father figure after Father’s abandonment.

Chloe was the youngest, and thus, her memories weren’t entirely tarnished by her father’s foray into painting forgeries. Vague memories of him reading her bedtime stories lingered in her mind. They’d been close…and perhaps too similar.

The rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the ailing tree.

Footsteps sounded outside the hall, and the butler entered the breakfast room for the second time that morning. “There is a delivery for you, Miss Chloe.”

Chloe set down her cup. “For me?”

“Yes, miss.”

Both sisters pushed back their chairs and followed the butler into the vestibule, where an enormous arrangement of hothouse lilies in a glittering crystal vase rested on a pedestal table.

Chloe gasped. “Oh my! Have you ever seen such lovely blooms?”

“Read the card,” Eliza prodded.

Chloe reached for the embossed vellum. For a heart-stopping moment, she wondered if the blooms were sent by the duke.

Don’t be ridiculous. There was nothing romantic about the Duke of Cameron. He had offended and insulted her, and then he had kissed her—not to seduce her or court her, but to prove his dominance and control, to prove that he would win in their battle of wills no matter the tactic chosen. If only she hadn’t felt a ripple of desire when he’d pressed his lips to hers.

She broke the seal, let the sheet of crisp paper unfold, and read out loud:

Dear Miss Somerton.

The beauty of these flowers is nothing compared to your own.

Yours truly,

Lord Sefton.

Eliza clasped her hands to her chest in delight. “How utterly romantic! The garden party shall be the perfect opportunity to further encourage the young earl’s pursuit.”

Chloe’s fingers tightened on the card. Her emotions vacillated between satisfaction and uncertainty. Her plans were coming to fruition. And if all went well, Henry would propose marriage before the end of the Season. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

Then why did she keep remembering a single kiss from an infuriating duke?

Chapter Five

Chloe inhaled the scent of evergreens, azaleas, and flowering shrubs in Lady Webster’s garden. She’d arrived with Eliza and Huntingdon a half hour prior and they’d mingled with the dozens of well-dressed guests.

An impressive showing had turned out for the unveiling of Lady Webster’s horticultural conservatory, a large glass-and-steel structure that loomed in the distance. A widow in her early fifties, Lady Webster was an avid horticulturist. Dressed entirely in green, she wore a turban that made her look like one of her sculpted evergreens. The conservatory doors remained closed until all had arrived, when Lady Webster would open them for her guests to tour.